Lazy from C-Z

Something, or someone, inexplicable whispers vague and ambiguous words and exclamations inside me, unabridged and longing, enigmatic and supercilious in nature. There is something needed to be done, and is to be done by me alone. These whispers, somewhat incoherent, resonate a resounding translation that even though and despite the confusion, it remains adamant, optimistic, confident, as if I were involved in some sort of serendipitous conspiracy that is bound to deliver, bound to occur. Then I took a step forward in order to test this imposing force, and sighed, at the very relief of having still that freedom to think that I am able to think if indeed there was that possibility to step forward. My mind, as proof of this experiment, is still mine and mine alone. But this thing desires one thing, and only one thing, and it wants me to discover this, to find out for myself what it most likely means to be completely free. Very free. Maybe a million miles away but still free. I say my nam...

Time never stood still as I would have wanted. Even for a second a huge difference it may incur. The mornings stay stagnant, lazy, and unwilling cooperation lingers like oil in water. The music enlightens the view, Man Gave Name To All The Animals, too much relaxation and not much effort pushed. Still on the buff, and strong smell clogging the nostrils from the gamma radiations. Typical Thursday, no. Unwashed dishes from the night before, bones and plastic glass, not a sign of productivity. Noises from the window beside me tickle, as if they drew me into the equation, into the madness of what's beyond that. What is beyond that is the goal. Two ways. Love or life. The salty tears from her masturbating finger drip from her vibrating Mr. Pinkie. She shows me her smile again, then her breasts, and she touches them, and shakes them manically. Turns around to show her ass cheeks. Where the fuck is my erection? She smiles and turns towards me, making funny fac...

In her chubby face the shadow looms Tomorrow is something to reminisce However improbable or true Decadence serves like penance For those whose egos are sharp as thorns Double penetration One for the touchdown The other an anal cucumber A woman of a slut of a face There is that light It never faded out And love blooms

There is a severe lack of snowfall for supposedly winter nights recently that I find it hard to take this cold seriously, I opined in order to make a point-blank decision for footwear preferences. It's always difficult to make choices based on others miserable sense of entitlement, that certain way of telling you that you are no longer in tip-top shape as you were, that you are out of their league of fashion, and that your social life is impeded by how you choose to look or act in a certain, even if peculiar, way.

By Steel and Blood: Chance Encounter I could almost feel my hard-hitting aggressor closing in on me from behind those bushes, intently eyeing me with devious intent, waiting for the right circumstance to attack, beefing up its strategy to catch me off-guard. In a sense I pity this creature in that I am always one step ahead of it. To think that it actually and instinctively believes that it has already etched my demise, it boosts my great pleasure to know I would not think twice of cutting its breath off its lungs. My dagger alone would make swift action of it and I'd spare it of the pain, just because I'm feeling a bit giving as of lately. This bonfire in front of me is at its twigs' end, and once it loses its luminance then I'm pretty sure the wily creature would flank me from behind. Three minutes in, fire struggles for breath, and it begins to drizzle, killing off the very last one. My enemy steps out of the bush, drool dripping from its sharp, murderous fang...

Fuck the Olympics! Driven out of home of this unusually funny circumstance, greed takes over and manifests itself early on. The revelry isn't even here until six months or so. Funny how individuals anticipate the eagerness of money in it. I so happen to live quite literally just across the stadium and now these said individuals (and agencies, for that matter) are pushing me away to make money off of it. I'll have none of this. I have little care for this event as I am not a man driven of other people's sheer hype nor does patriotism have anything to do with it. I was just fortunate (and unfortunate) enough to live somewhere very close to where the event takes place and where it also happens that my workplace is but a walking distance away from where I am (3 Mills Studios).  I pay 600£ a month. Too much for even I myself, alone, to pay. Now they're asking for a walloping price of 8,000£ for just two months due to this Olympic thing that I dare not bother. Ho...

They speak praises of your illness, the warning signs of decay overshadowing my carcinogens, a full frontal view of your wonderful countenance. Not I, where was I, there I was, clueless, known to self as the Unabomber, plotting nothing for our fateful beginning. Poverty is neither crime nor vice, an old man falling in love. Forgive the child in the woman, the woman is a child. Her smile, her unique ability, her magical sensitivities, at a ripe age for humour and my kiss. Here waiting, never letting go, smiling for tomorrow's carols, a snowless escapade in a wonderland of dreams. Her face undeniably persistent, whispers, disavows. Seasons greetings pass, but the fucks I give amount to a variable of none. She is the one, the only light in the manger, the solitary north star together alone. We strive to push boundaries, a cabaret night full of merriment, imbibing throughout the darkness of day, the gloom streets of London town on a middle day noon. Our victory will signal a relat...

North Korea is no longer Best Korea. Good night sweet prince.

The mother stares at the television, tsk-ing and saddened by the sudden flood on an old memory of a city from the mother country. His husband of many years sits by beside her, tentatively watching the sad news himself, purposefully denying any allegations of sympathy. Like the son. Totally annoyed by seeing his mother's unfounded empathy. She continually yells from the room, converting the mood around, bidding mournful shrieks of helplessness. The lingering smell of boiling vegetable oil does not make things easier, in fact. The son's schadenfreude ticks itself off. 'Fuck that,' he tells himself, while his mother prays for things to become better. The old folks were supposed to go to church that evening, only halted by the undying sweat of cold from the bitter air. The son hates it all. He would have none of it. Exasperated by his mother's lame philanthropic ideals, poor as they are, troubled a family as they are. 'Fuck that,' he tells himself again, as he ...

It was a joyous occasion marred only by sentimentality. Everything was going according to an unprecedented plan, an instinctive flow, and then introduced into a world of vivid colours. I was smack-dabbed in the middle of it all, a wayward mobile leading an unknown course. There I found love once more, not once, but twice, but three times. Still I sense there were more to it than just that. But for now I have to settle with just the melancholy, the bitterness of having none at all. Three loves in one whole day... what a strange sensation. Fuck me for assuming but there it is. For a whole life of waiting this sure feels like a heavy burden to reconsider. I am not alpha nor am I clinquant. I am but a vessel of pure mediocrity and/or suckage. Or maybe I need to work more on my insecurities. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. Too much of Nietzsche hurts, too little of sunshine burns. I saw opportunity in the eyes of another. Freddie, is this the real life? Or is this just fantasy? ...

Funny things happen when least expected, or so is always the case. The call for something good breathes life off of my kindred spirit and bears some sort of increasing strength. I wouldn't want to assume. I've had similar feelings in the past, only to crash and burn simultaneously on my face and long since forgotten. It feels good to wake up once more unhindered by time, but so is sadly the case. The days leading to this always has something naughty up its sleeve. Last year I had an almost identical situation. Whatever this is doing to me now is unfortunately maybe just a fluke. I need to go back and make sure. Please bring me somewhere concrete. Leave the theatrics on stage, this is my life we are talking now. First stop: Party Fiesta.

Rather no sleep at all than three hours of sleep and eyes droopy as any fuck. Poor old sod. December screams freeze! I turn to find a wailing banshee with self-inflicted tinnitus. One slap and back on my feet. I'm sick and tired of these sacrifices. They laugh, I laugh, every single one of the bodies laugh for reasons unknown. Reach the slums -- only to find it left by itself, to loot and plunder by the vanguard of ideas and proposals. There it is. Her smile, he remembers. But why? I shouldn't. I couldn't. Of all the baddest of bad luck.

Transcript for epic fucking fail: Good day, boytoys and gentlemen! My name is Bruce Danus, a strategist, an obsessive dilettante, and writer of best-selling historiographic metafictions, A Gentle Molestation and A Winner is You. You can visit my website at www.brucedanus.com for more details. I am here today to proudly unveil my next greatest lordnovel yet. Pre-order it now and get a lifetime supply of malfunction which will greatly aid readers who have then suffered from delusions of grandeur! Before the unveiling I would like to share a little story about something: When I was young I married a woman from a boring country called Brassiere where every day people eat coxinha, horrible food made of elephant turd and monkey meat. She used to feed it to me, her mother, her sister, her sister’s mother’s sister, and every woman in the land. Ever since then I developed a longstanding loathing for women. My wife eventually left me. I could hardly give a rat’s ass. Although...

For a man so free that light encompasses There with him solace levitating besides his yellow wings From there it speaks with its harrowing presence Not a voice nor a sound but only a sightly sign His freedom brims, his body tucks into itself For flesh is weak that no freedom shall abide A prison yet still even including his masticating aileron An oxymoron, wherever it begins

Confidence does not always guarantee a safe passage to anywhere. Your nerves will find a way to break you down, push you further to the hole you dug on to, and bury you along with all your pathetic tears. There's no other nicer ways of putting it, truth be told, and before the clock strikes past quarter to ten, everything begins to illuminate themselves, then you see what it is that truly excites you: rage.

'We're in this together now,' she says to me. 'We will make it through somehow.' I said nothing, remained transfixing my sight on to her, and suppressing an overwhelming wincing sensation inside me. I thought it's either she's delirious or hopelessly clueless. So I decided to wait, harnessed all my opinions, and waiting for the right opportunity to unload it all. 'Well,' her eyebrow rose, mouth open. 'You aren't helping at all with silence.' What answer does she want? 'I think it's better if you let it be,' I tell her coolly, as if understanding fully the situation. Her eyebrows immediately drowned and made me feel a bit queasy. 'I don't get it,' she says. 'But I think I understand where you're coming from. You do make a fine point. Let's take that into consideration.' I certainly didn't get what she meant by that but somehow I felt jubilated. Now feeling confident, ...

It gets harder and harder to sleep. Counting the ways in which victory could be attained somewhat already defeats the purpose. If I were to indeed lose (which I already undoubtedly have), then the only direction is forward. Retaliation is not my forte nor do I intend making a habit of. I'd rather have sweet, looming irony overcome this obstacle than anything else, or a dash of twist of fate mayhap, or a bullet in the eye. Figuratively. I still believe victory, though Pyrrhic, will one day find life on my shoulder, dreading on the days passed by, counting misfortunes and laughing at them all the while. There is only that wishful thinking, more dreadful than dread itself.

It's beginning to flare up now. I like it, really. All those repressed thoughts slowly and finally bursting forth and manifesting itself. Then I realise I'm on the other end, and also then I begin to take notice of what's in store, the battle that will either torment me for a long, long time, or my own sudden demise coming to a closure. Each and every step shows a new opening. I have never asserted myself into anything, that is because I no longer feel the need to. All these pent-up rage, whatever you call it, it's basically drifting into the space and becoming one with its end, like a burnt-out candle in an autumn night. There it stood no longer sensible, and by then my end will be my peace. Or it could be a launching concept of melodrama.

Laughably bad, that was all it was. Laughing stock, and then some. No pity parties for me tonight. Tonight I find peace in whatever way. Tonight everything will turn out fine. I just can't speak for myself for tomorrow. My chest was stuffed with feathery foam in order to provide a laugh or two for the spectators. I would if I could, not that I couldn't, more like should. The demand to collaborate is high. These are not my tipping points. I work better alone. I work better for better or worse. As I was halted due to my extreme audacity, I knew nothing good would come soonafter. Hence I became something of a monstrous, cancerous, dangerous presence. Feeling the need to threaten and voided of choice. I look back and all I remember was my laboured, crooked smile directed at the person involved. It is no longer about plans for vindication. I have had a lot of shares of that struggle in this past couple of months which, sadly, amount to nothing. Those pathetic eyes linger an...

Parting gifts for friends in farewell Wish them luck on a wishing well They swallow everything you feed at them Including lies in an old fool's requiem Sons and daughters of an absentee Faith is all there is to see A pity fuck for a single dime The guilt lasts a century's time Flakes of snow on a summer head It's always better, yeah, better off dead Promises of something that truly last The future is yours except the past